


stars came falling, on our heads

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Haircuts, M/M, Married Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: For a man out of time, there was never enough of it, not for Bucky. As Fury’s text indicated, the time for grieving was quickly running up, leaving Bucky with an important call to make: was he ready to take the shield, or not?And the truth is, he’s not, if his appearance is anything to go off. His hair has grown long, uncomfortably long, and, seemingly, constantly-tangled. What’s the point, after all, of keeping it smooth and fluffy and shiny, if Steve isn’t there to admire it, to grip it, to run his fingers through it? His stubble has grown long, too, making him look almost feral, worse, even, than when he’d escaped Hydra.It’s not becoming of a Captain America. Not at all. So, as if a man possessed, as if a man on a mission, Bucky moves to fix it.or: a story about bucky barnes, mourning, and hair.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The World Needs Captain America](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590929) by [Summer-Soldier-art (Goddessofpredators)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddessofpredators/pseuds/Summer-Soldier-art). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief trigger warning: there's a couple passing mentions of suicidal ideation in this. they aren't quite severe enough as to qualify as "suicidal thoughts," but please proceed with as much caution and care as you need.

Steven Grant Rogers is gone.

 _We don’t trade lives,_ Steve promised, once upon a time.

 _To the end of the line,_ Bucky had promised, even longer before that.

But as he lies there, his big, seemingly-indestructible body snowdrift-fragile, fading away on the battlefield that was once New York, that was once _their home,_ Steve and Bucky quickly begin to realize they won’t be able to keep either of those promises.

All Bucky can do is sob big, messy tears, his words spilling out, just as unabated and uncontrollable as Steve’s inevitable passing. Having traded his life for Bucky’s, having made the dumbest decision out of a century’s worth of dumb decisions, Steve looks calm, even through the tears that are welling up in his own eyes. As the dust makes its way up his torso, slowly eating through his chest, Steve smiles that horrible sad smile at Bucky, wiping Bucky’s tears for the last time.

“Don’t fucking do this,” Bucky vaguely remembers sobbing, as the last of Steve begins to fade away. “You know I can’t do this without you.”

And Steve, golden, good, too good for this goddamn world, leaves Bucky, after a century of chasing after one another, with another mournful promise, just like those six words that broke Bucky out of his conditioning, all those years ago:

“ _You’ll know what to do. Promise._ ”

**\---**

The reality, though, weeks later, is that Bucky _doesn’t_ know what to do.

He doesn’t _do_ much, these days. He works out, he eats, he cries, and he sleeps. The last time Bucky has made an effort to be presentable was during Steve’s funeral. He gave both the public and private eulogy, carried Steve’s casket, and was the first to lower that empty pine box into its grave. It was an experience that left Bucky just as hollow as the casket itself. Though Steve was not, could not, be buried, somehow, Bucky still felt like he was letting Steve down—this time, for the last time.

Since then, Bucky hasn’t found much cause to go out. The city, even in its state of repair, even as the world celebrates the return of half its citizens to life, seems gray, dull, dead. Wilson and Romanov have taken turns _stopping by_ , a poorly-coded way of saying, _we’re making sure that you don’t kill yourself._

Which is fine. It’s understandable. They couldn’t have the _only other supersoldier_ offing himself, not when there were bright red combat boots that still needed to be filled.

Not that he was worthy of filling those boots, anyway.

Wilson is in his living room one day, having _just stopped by_ to drop off some supposedly-extra takeout. It’s more than Wilson could ever have put away himself, more than was reasonable for a single man to have ordered, but it’s just enough to pass as dinner Bucky, not that Bucky is too hungry. It’s not a particularly-important day, except for the fact that Bucky woke up thinking that Steve was in the kitchen, hoping that maybe, that past few weeks have been a horrible, horrible dream, only to find that he was still, in fact, gone.

Wilson stays after Bucky slowly, slowly finishes his food, murmuring something vague about not wanting to get on the train back to D.C. for—whatever reason. It’s fine. Having Wilson around is nice, and sometimes, it can even make Bucky feel like his whole world hasn’t collapsed. It’s as Wilson is watching some sort of nature documentary that Bucky receives a text message from Fury, one requesting a meeting, one holding the weight of the world in its few words.

_It’s time we talk about this job opening. Get back to me ASAP.  –F._

As Bucky stares down at the text message, the letters becoming almost incomprehensible in his vision, his heart begins to pound wildly in his chest. For a man out of time, there was never enough of it, not for Bucky. This was a case in point. As Fury’s text indicated, Bucky’s mourning period was—whether he was ready or not—coming to its close. The time was quickly running up, leaving Bucky with an important call to make: _would he take up the shield?_

And maybe the decision wouldn’t come that night. And maybe not in the next few days. But soon. Shaking, only vaguely recognizing that Wilson is asking him something, and even more vaguely-still realizing that he’s blowing him off, Bucky makes his way to his bathroom to look himself in the face and _ready himself for this._  

And the truth is, he’s not. At least, if his appearance is anything to go off, he isn’t ready at _all._ His hair has grown long, uncomfortably long, and, seemingly, constantly-tangled. What’s the point, after all, of keeping it smooth and fluffy and shiny, if Steve weren’t there to run his fingers through it? His stubble has grown long, too, making him look almost feral, worse, even, than when he’d escaped Hydra.

It’s not becoming of a _Captain America._

And it sure as hell wouldn’t be becoming of _Steve’s legacy._

As if possessed, Bucky pulls out an electric razor and slowly, carefully begins to shave his stubble off never breaking eye contact with himself in the mirror. As his facial hair falls away, revealing more of himself, Bucky sees a younger version of himself looking back at him, a happier version of himself, a version of himself who, a near-century before, was so excited for the future, was so-dutifully heading off to war.

He’s reminded of a version of himself who still reliably had _Steve._  

Breathing, but only barely, Bucky, takes the electric razor, still buzzing an angry hum in his hands, almost as terrifying as the shock from _the chair,_ and presses it to his temple, pulling back a ragged stripe towards the base of his skull. A long, tangled knot of his hair pulls away with it, and his chest heaves, wet with the promise of a sob.

Bucky repeats the action, this time, on the other side of his head, this time, with a shakier hand. It’s much messier than the last, and not even with the last, but that doesn’t let Bucky stop him. He thinks back to sticky-hot summers a century ago, when Steve would cut his hair. He thinks back to just a few short years ago, when Steve shaved him clean, when he’d finally come in from the cold. He thinks back to months ago, when Steve promised they’d both shave each other’s scruff, when _it was all finally over—_ when they finally got a chance to go home. Those tears that became so-familiar to Bucky over the past few months breached his eyes, once again, and he sobs, silently, nothing but the buzz of the razor proof for anyone beyond the bathroom door. Fully sobbing, he shaves another long strip down the side of his head, only stopping when a rap at the door sends a jolt down Bucky’s spine, and the razor bouncing out of his hand.  

“Barnes,” Wilson says quietly, on the other side of the door. His voice is soft, almost unfamiliar in its softness. It’s his _therapist_ voice, a register that Wilson tries so hard not to use with Bucky. Later, Bucky would recognize it as a sign of how worried he and Romanov must have been. But in the moment, in Bucky’s moment of almost earth-shattering crisis, it barely registers. “You’re decent, right?”

Bucky nods at his reflection in the mirror, wiping his face, messily, of tear-tracks and snot. Somehow, he finds enough sense to turn off the razor as he tries to put himself together. Or, at the very least, put on the closest thing he could to _being together._ “Yeah. I, uh. Yeah. I’m good.”

On the other side of the door, Wilson is quiet. Bucky thinks that he’s left, until he hears soft, familiar noise of someone’s hand on the door handle—not turning the knob, not yet. Wilson continues, ever-cognizant of moving through trauma, through boundaries, when they need to be breached. “I’m coming inside, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Bucky says, surveying the shameful mess of dark brown hair in the sink. _Okay. As fucking if._

Wilson enters quietly, timidly, in that way that people _have_ been treating Bucky ever since Steve passed. No one knows what to do with him now, like a feral dog, or a wild animal that got a little _too_ close to domestication for its own good. And it’s evident in the hedging, in the tiptoeing, in the ever-present anxiety of the people most-close to him.

At the very least, though, Wilson _tries._ Outside of moments like these. Or maybe, as Bucky is beginning to realize, in these very moments themselves.

“Oh—” Wilson starts, as soon as he’s in the bathroom. His eyes dart from the mess in the sink, to the gashes of half-shaved scalp on Bucky’s head, to Bucky himself. It’s a mess, and Bucky knows it. He knows he’s fucked up, and he’s fucked up, bad. Wilson is trying hard not to stare, but Bucky knows. He knows what that look is, of someone trying hard to keep from staring.

Anyone else would have left. Anyone else would have decided that this was too much. That _Bucky_ was too much. Anyone else would have gotten Bucky—with all the blood and shame and hurt that he carried on his hands or heavy on his shoulders—locked up or permanently in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, just like before.

But not Wilson.

Instead, Wilson opens up his arms, hugging Bucky tightly, letting him sob into his shoulder, long and forlorn and _broken,_ not even blinking at the sticky mess of tears and snot that Bucky leaves on his nice button-up.

“Here, Barnes, lemme—let’s put the razor down, yeah?” Wilson says eventually, his voice soft. As if he’s speaking to a hurt child, or a wild animal. _Ha._ “Let’s get this fixed up, okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky manages. “Yeah.”

**\---**

Wilson takes Bucky to Romanov, who takes one look at his hair, nods, and takes the three of them to Bed-Stuy. From there, Romanov shoves a beanie on Bucky’s head and they walk to a plain-looking prewar apartment building. Once at the top floor, once at the apartment closest to the roof, Romanov knocks the door, forcefully, almost reminiscent of his time in Bucharest. They wait a few minutes, before Romanov knocks again, just as forcefully. This time, the door flies open in under a minute. Standing at the door, grumbling, is a floppy-eared one-eyed dog and his man: Barton. Clinton Francis Barton. Ex-carnie, sometimes-Avenger, and, from the looks of it, current landlord to the Bed-Stuy brownstone.

_Interesting._

“Jeez, Tasha. You know what time it is?” Barton says, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Oh. Hey, Wilson. Hey, Barnes.”

Romanov ignores Barton, instead, pushing into the apartment, dragging Bucky in by the wrist as she does. Wilson, surprised at her forwardness, smiles at Barton, awkwardly, and steps inside, following them.

“Aww, come on, Tasha,” Barton groans, as if they’ve done that a million times before. And perhaps they had. “At least let me put a pot of coffee on.”

“You need to cut down on your caffeine intake,” Romanov says, matter-of-factly. The one-eyed dog trots over to her and licks her hand, lazily. She scritches the dog back, just as lazily, if that could ever be used to describe Romanov. “Anyway. It was an emergency. And you’re the only person who can help.”

“Oh, shit,” Barton says. That seems to wake him up. “What’s up?”

“Can you fix this?” Romanov asks, cutting straight to the point. She pulls the beanie off, fully-revealing Bucky’s shameful attempts at mourning.

“Oof,” Barton says, looking over Bucky. _Oof_ is right. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Wilson make a face, though it’s more likely the result of Barton’s reaction than Bucky’s chop job. “I’m gonna have to take a lot off, but yeah. I can fix this.”

“Sorry, I’m confused,” Wilson says, “ _Why_ is Clint going to cut Barnes’ hair, again? Shouldn’t we—you know, take him to a barbershop in the morning, or something?”

“Clint’s the only person I trust with my hair,” Romanov says. “Other than myself.”

Barton yawns, and pulls a chair up from his dining table. “Nat, I don’t even trust _you_ with your hair. You go crazy with the tools.”

Romanov frowns, watching Barton as he makes his way to another room, her gaze practically glaring daggers. “I do _not._ ”

“I gave you a curling iron for your birthday one year, and you used it so often that we had to cut half of it off, remember?” Barton calls out, from what sounds like a bathroom. “We _barely_ avoided that with the straight iron—and that’s _only_ because you lost it after you took down S.H.I.E.L.D., you know.”

“ _Pah_ ,” Romanov grumbles, and the dog imitates her, adorably. Wilson makes a soft _awwing_ noise, and the dog thumps its tail, happily, against Barton’s hardwood floors. “Anyway. Clint’s good at hair.”

“I was a stylist for a while!” says Barton, coming back to the living room with a big plastic container full of tools. There’s a towel slung over his shoulder, a comb tucked into his pocket, and a spray bottle hanging off his waistband. He motions to the chair, and Bucky nods, doing as he’s told. Not that he was unfamiliar with sitting in an uncomfortable chair at the command of a blond white man. “That’s how good I am. Uh, also, because the circus was cheap and wasn’t willing to hire an actual stylist, but, you know. It’s mostly ‘cause I’m good.”

“Uh-huh,” Wilson says, sounding unconvinced. Bucky isn’t convinced, either, but it’s not like Barton can do worse to his hair than has already been done. The dog trots over from Romanov to Wilson, nuzzling its big, fuzzy face into Wilson’s hand, as if it’d never been pet before.  

“Oh, don’t mind Lucky,” Barton says. “You can just push him aside, if you need. He’s big and clumsy and sometimes he gets the zoomies outta nowhere, but deep down, he’s a good boy.”

And wasn’t _that_ familiar. Bucky blinks back tears as he sits down, shoulders tense, hair wrecked, and memories of his best guy threatening to overcome him, once more.

Now up-close, Barton examines Bucky’s hair, whistling, long and slow. Like whiplash, Bucky jerks from sadness to shame, now under the scrutiny of a relative stranger’s judging gaze. “I’m gonna get started. I promise it’s not gonna hurt, but you’ve just gotta trust me with touching your head. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay,” Bucky says, because _what’s the other option?_

Barton nods, and he begins, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, untangling those worked-in knots, his touch gentle, kind, but far from the intimate, loving way that Steve would run his fingers through Bucky’s long, long hair in the early hours of the morning, on those few nights where they could, together, make some semblance of home.  

“You did a real number on this hair of yours, bud,” Barton says eventually, carefully parting Bucky’s hair some way or another. He’s gentle with his comb and clips, managing to wrangle the wet mass on Bucky’s head into something to work with.

“Well, at least I didn’t kill myself, right?” Bucky half-jokes, letting out a soft, bitter little laugh. No one says anything. That’s fine. Bucky wasn’t trying to be funny, anyway. Not really.

The silence that follows is tense, awkward, though not fully unexpected. Of course, no one would have anything to say to that. Not when Bucky was still grieving. Not when they were practically keeping him on watch, anyway.

“I promised him I wouldn’t, anyway,” Bucky adds, quietly. The one-eyed dog, seemingly sensing something is wrong, something is _hurting,_ quietly trots up to Bucky, putting its big, furry head on Bucky’s lap. Lucky huffs, looking up at Bucky with one big, blue eye that’s almost reminiscent of Steve’s. Bucky lets out a soft sigh, and starts petting Lucky, who is a very good dog, indeed.

“I’m glad you made him that promise,” Wilson says. Bucky hums, as he cannot nod, not with Barton working on his hair. Lucky is a warm, comfortable weight in his lap. It’s helping Bucky’s mood _tremendously,_ the sense-feelings of a warm dog in his lap and the cool weight of his hair on his neck. Not that there was anywhere for his mood to go but up, _but hey._  

“I’ve made a lot of promises,” Bucky says, his voice a low mumble. _Speak up, Buck._ Steve Rogers’ ghost follows him everywhere. “Might as well keep this one.”

“Hey, it’s just like we’ve said,” Wilson says, his voice gentle, but tired-sounding; strained. “One step at a time. One promise at a time. Yeah?”

Bucky hums once more, not in agreement, not really, but in acknowledgement. “Don’t got time to take it _a step at a time_.”

“There’s always time,” Wilson says, gently, in that way that he does when he’s very, very tired, but still very, very dedicated to making sure Bucky leaves their conversation thinking more of himself than he had before. They both know how this goes. How it’s _gone._ But this time, it was different. This time, Bucky got as close to self-harm as he ever has before.

This time, there were _real_ stakes to the dilemma at hand, a real deadline, real decisions that Bucky was going to have to make.

And he says as much.

“Someone needs to take the shield,” Bucky says, his voice low, almost fading into the same buzz as the electric razor that Barton currently has pressed to his temple. To his credit, Barton does not stop, not for a second. He might have been a goofball, but he was damn good at his job—whatever that job may be.

To their credit, no one in the room practically bats an _eyelash._

“Mm, yeah. Yeah, someone will, huh?” Barton says eventually, breaking that terse silence with an ease that Bucky is both suspicious of and eternally grateful for. He pauses, brushing off fine, downy layers of hair from Bucky’s scalp. “Wonder who it’ll be.”

And Bucky _knows_ that’s not a real question. If not for Barton’s tone, for the fact that there’s really only one option.  

“It’s sure not gonna be me,” Wilson says, his voice sounding heavy, worn.  

“Why not?” Barton asks.

Wilson sighs, laying the full weight of his exhaustion out to bear, not for the first time, but for _one of them._ “I have a _real job_ and _clients_ I need to get back to _._ As much as I love New York, as much as I wanna help fighting the good fight, I—I can’t keep doing this whole vigilante justice thing. It’s—it’s too much.”

“I don’t blame you,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t. Not between seeing Steve die. Not between having to deal with the world falling apart. Not between seeing that _no one_ is dealing with their trauma in a healthy way, not between knowing that there are people who need him, in different ways, who he just _abandoned,_ to go on the road, to live the vigilante life. If anyone deserves civilian stability, it’s Sam. Bucky feels guilty, even, for being part of that burden.

Barton hums, somehow, articulating in that casual noise, a sympathy, a level of care, that Bucky _felt,_ though it was not intended for him. “What about you, Nat?”

“Yeah, no, I’m not running around with that gaudy shield. I don’t work that way,” Romanov says with a scoff, padding over to Barton’s kitchen as she does. Sarcasm drips from her tone, but there’s something sharp there, something thorny and impenetrable and, at the same time, dangerously raw. For the first time, Bucky recognizes a _vulnerability_ there—a softness, a fragility, that, though Romanov would never let him close enough to touch, he could perhaps, like in this moment, catch half-glimpses of.

Not that he blames her, either. Not when he’d shot her through the stomach. It was a miracle enough that she’d let him _this_ close. It wasn’t every day that people whose lives he’d destroyed let him back in. The only person who’d forgiven him fully, unequivocally, openly, was—well. Dead, now.

Barton, though. Barton was privy, it seems, to all of Natasha’s many facets, all her many moods. He just laughs, softly, and shakes his head, as he continues to work. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Just thought I’d ask.”

“Look at you, being the gentleman,” she snarks back from the kitchen, grabbing what sounds to be a plastic container of cookies.

“And what about you?” Barton asks, quieter, flicking the razor, ever-gently, along Bucky’s scalp. “Do you not wanna take up the shield?”

“I—” Bucky starts. And there it is. The very thing that brought Bucky there to Barton’s living room, out in the open. “I’ve been called to.”

Barton hums. “But?”

 _But_ many things. _But_ he’s a mess. _But_ he’s still missing Steve. _But_ there’s no way that he, with so much blood on his hands, with so much he’s done, so much he’s seen, so much he can never repent enough for, could ever hold a goddamn candle to the _golden, shining light,_ that _beacon_ of _real, honest-to-God justice,_ that Steve was. _But_ everything.

Bucky sighs, a little shakily, eventually settling on, “I don’t think I’m worthy of it.”

Though he can’t see him, Bucky can _hear_ Barton making a little confused expression. It’s plain as day in his tone. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not Steve, is the thing,” Bucky says, because he’s not. And that answer, from the disaster that is his half-attempted haircut, should have been clear enough. But he says it, he repeats it, because, apparently, Clint needs to hear it. “That mantle takes a lot to step into, and I’m not—I don’t think I have what it takes. Morally, I mean _._ ”

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but we all know that Steve was no saint, you know,” Wilson says, cutting in. “He _did_ things. You know that. Some of those things, he did for _you._ ”

“I know that,” Bucky says, because God, if anyone knows that, he knows that. “But—just— _God,_ Steve was just _—_ he was _so good._ ”

“He _was_ good,” Barton repeats, without missing a beat from his work. “Best man I’d ever met.”

“And that’s it,” Bucky says. “We all know what I’ve done. And—I don’t think I can step into those shoes.”

“Sure, you can,” Barton says, flicking close, close, close to Bucky’s scalp.

“I can’t. I’m not good enough,” Bucky answers, quickly.  

“Who says?” Barton asks, and Bucky _knows_ what he’s doing. But he continues, anyay.

“I—” Bucky starts. “I just. I know it. I can’t be like him.”

Barton sighs, brushing away more hair from Bucky’s scalp. It feels lighter now. A lot lighter. But he doesn’t will himself to think about what it looks like. He just hopes it’s not a buzzcut. Worse, he hopes it's not a haircut like _Steve’s._

“You don’t have to be like him, though, is the thing,” Barton says. “You just have to do the work he’d do. Honor his memory but standing up for the things he’d stand up for, you know.”

“That’s right,” Wilson adds. “And besides. I know you’ve been talking about this with your therapist. But none of the things you did under Hydra, none of the things that you did when you _had no choice,_ none of those were your fault. You know that, right?”

Bucky doesn’t answer that, _can’t_ answer that. Not when the guilt of still having _done those things,_ not when the guilt of _surviving,_ is so heavy on his soul.  

Barton pauses for a second, swapping one electric razor for another, continuing to speak as he does. “And besdies. Even if you become Cap, you don’t gotta _be Cap,_ you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Bucky sighs, because that’s the dumbest goddamn thing anyone has ever said.

“I mean—” Barton says, starting again. “You wanna take the shield, right?”

Bucky hums. “I mean. I feel like it’s my duty to.”

“But you _want_ to?” Barton asks, going over the places where he’d shaved down Bucky’s hair _again._ “Really, how do you feel about it?”

“I—” Bucky sighs. And _wasn’t that the question of the night._ It was, after all, the question that brought them there, the question that led Bucky to shave his head in a moment of panic, in the first place. _Does he want to take the shield?_ Worthiness, goodness, and all that he lacked—those were all secondary to that question of whether or not taking the shield was something Bucky _wants._ And when it comes down to it, when Bucky closes his eyes, the buzzing of Barton’s electric razor like white noise against his temple, the answer becomes clear. The future that Bucky can see for himself, a future that he can _hope_ for himself, what he hopes he can _grow into,_ becomes crystal-clear. “I do.”

“You do what?” Barton asks, his tone less of a badgering one and more of a gentle nudge, the verbal equivalent of the warm, furry weight of Lucky’s head, still rested comfortably in Bucky’s lap.

“I want to take up the shield,” Bucky says, and _damn,_ does it feel strange to say it out loud. Strange, but not unwelcome. Strange, but not untrue. All of a sudden, Bucky’s mouth feels very, very dry. “Yeah. Deep down, I want to.”

The silence that fills the room would be unbearable, if not for the drone of Barton’s electric razor. But it feels necessary, natural, a way for Bucky to really sit with what he’d just said. Sitting with the truth—that he wants to take up the shield, that he wants to continue Steve’s legacy, that it’s not just a sense of duty for him, but an active, motivated sense of _want—_ doesn’t change anything, not really. Not materially.

But somehow, at the same time, it changes _everything._

“I want to take up the shield,” Bucky repeats, quiet. Mostly for himself. “I want to be Captain America.”

Silence follows that. It’s not a tense silence, not in the way that the silence following Bucky’s joke about suicide was a mood-killer. But it’s a contemplative silence, bordering on comfortable, if comfort were possible, between relative strangers who Bucky had tried to kill, all those years ago. It allows for Bucky’s admission—that he, of his own volition, wants to take up the Captain America mantle—to breathe, to settle, to _grow._  

And of course, as it is Bucky’s silence, he is the one who breaks it.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, once again, quiet. Once again, easy to miss, if one weren’t listening carefully-enough. “I want it. That’s what I want.”

Barton brushes off Bucky’s scalp, gentle as before. _Welcome_ as before. “But you don’t want to be Steve, yeah?”

“No,” Bucky says, careful not to shake his head. “I—I couldn’t be.”

“Of course, you couldn’t,” Barton says, “Because you’re not Steve. You’re Bucky.”

“Right,” Bucky says, as if it weren’t the most obvious thing in the world.

“You just need to do the work that you think is right. The work that he would’ve wanted you to do,” Wilson says, cutting in, in the gentle, wonderful, knowing way that he does.

“Yeah,” Barton says, “What Sam says.”

Bucky smiles, and it feels unusual, though not altogether uncomfortable. He can’t remember the last time he’d smiled. It was probably—well. _Before._ “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

Wilson continues, his tone slipping more into that playful, teasing tone that he put on, that he and Bucky shared, from time to time. “And besides. If you need more credit to your name, if you need more proof that you’re actually, deep down, _good,_ think about it this way: Steve Rogers wouldn’t’ve settled down with you, wouldn’t’ve even _picked_ you, if he didn’t think you were just as good as he was. Maybe even more so. So. If you can’t think of yourself as a good enough guy for the shield for yourself, try to think about it in terms of how you looked to _Steve._ ”

“Right. That’s my late friend’s husband you’re talking about, asshole,” Natasha says, from the other side of the room. Her friendly tone is always a shock to Bucky. He nearly starts crying again, just because of that.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice a little tired, a little shaky, a little fragile, but better than when he arrived at Barton’s apartment, all the same. The dog in his lap huffs, licking his hand, once more.

Yeah. Okay. If he wasn’t going to give himself credit, he was, at the very least, going to give _Steve_ credit. It was the least he could do, to honor his best guy’s memory, after all. Even if it _did_ mean cutting himself more slack than he ever deserved.

Eventually, Barton turns off the electric razor, instead, taking out his shears and _snip-snip-snipping_ away at the hair on the top of Bucky’s head. There isn’t much length left, Bucky can feel it, but Barton continues, seemingly perfecting Bucky’s haircut down to a _fine point._ As with archery, Barton might have had his deficits, but when it came to a job, Barton was _precise as they came._

“Done,” Barton says, not a minute later, dusting off Bucky’s shoulders and neck, one last time. _Dusting off. Ha._ His head feels lighter, and not just because all his hair is now gone.

“Wow,” says Wilson, looking Bucky up and down. “You clean up _good._ ”

“Think you should’ve gone for an undercut, but I guess this’ll do. You look fine, Barnes,” Romanov says, with a little shrug. Bucky thinks he can see a smile forming on her lips, but he doesn’t get his hopes up. This is probably the best the two of them are going to be able to manage, given their history. He’ll take it.

“You wanna take a look at yourself in the mirror?” Barton asks, and _isn’t that a question._ An hour or a lifetime ago, he wouldn’t have been able to answer that. But it’s easier to answer, now.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding. “Sure.”

Barton rustles through his big plastic container of tools, eventually, pulling out an electric-purple hand mirror. He hands it to Bucky, carefully, mirror facing outwards, as if to give Bucky a moment to steel himself. As if to allow Bucky some time, before he looks himself, once more, in the eye.

And when Bucky does, it stops him, leaving him honest-to-God _breathless._

“I—oh,” Bucky breathes, and he almost doesn’t recognize himself, with the haircut. From the disaster of a chop job, Barton truly was able to turn Bucky’s hair into something that looks not only presentable, but something that looks _good._ His chestnut-brown hair is shaved close to the scalp, though it’s not a buzzcut, not like Bucky had feared. From the base of his neck to the crown of his head, Bucky’s hair smoothly transitions into what little—very little—length he has on the top. It’s a fade, high and tight, and Bucky, though he’d never had the hairstyle before in his life, though he’d never even shorn his hair so short before this, feels an overwhelming swell of exuberance flow through him. He has to hold back tears, once more—this time, not because he’s lost, but because for the first time since Steve’s death, he looks in the mirror and doesn’t see someone in freefall.

He sees, for the first time, someone who could be _Captain America._

“So, what do you think?” Barton asks, for the first time that night, sounding really, openly, unsure. The ghost of Steve Rogers, a mere figment of Bucky’s memory, if even that, echoes a familiar adoration, in that low, familiar tone: _Damn, Barnes. You make me wanna marry you all over again._

The ghost of Steve Rogers, even in his non-existence, even as nothing but Bucky’s psyche, always _did_ know what to say.

“I—I think it’s good,” Bucky says, because, _yeah._ It sure is. “I think I’m good.”

And for the first time since the funeral, since the first time since Steve Rogers’ death, Bucky—though he was still in recovery, though he would still, when he could, mourn—really, truly, _fully_ means it.

**\---**

When Bucky Barnes takes the mantle, when Captain America reappears, dead and long-living, all at the same time, it is in a flurry of chaos and snowfall.

As Bucky hefts the shield, maneuvering it with the ease of a natural, with the instincts of it being practically an _extension of himself,_ it feels like a christening, like a rebirth, like a phoenix taking flight.

As the snowflakes fall, gentle against Bucky’s close-shorn head, Steve Rogers’ ghost calls whispers platitudes once more, this time, in the howl of the wind, in the gentle fall of snow, in the very stars above Bucky’s bare head:  

_You’ll know what to do. Told you._

Bucky does know what to do. It took a while, but he knows. Or thinks he knows, anyway. Just like Steve said. Just like Steve, in his last breaths, in those last few moments, promised.

And it’s a promise kept. Something that Bucky would expect no less from of Steve Rogers, the one and only person bright enough, brave enough, _good enough,_ to make in the first place.

Hopefully, thinks Bucky, thinks the new _Captain America,_ he can live up to it. Not Steve. Not the mantle of _Captain America,_ but that faith, that hope.

That _promise._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a very collaborative (and long-term) work with [summer-soldier-art](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddessofpredators/pseuds/Summer-Soldier-art) who drew the incredible buckycap piece this work is inspired by (which, itself, relates to [this twitter thread](https://twitter.com/aka_spacedog/status/1071522857933402112)). i'm so happy to have gotten the first chapter out before endgame!! i'm hoping to get the second, less-angsty chapter out before i actually see endgame, but. we'll see.
> 
> this was unbeta'd, and will probably get edited for clarity in the upcoming days, but otherwise, will remain as messy as it is. it's part of the charm, i guess? at least, i think so. 
> 
> title, of course, is from [regina spektor's "samson."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8) i am absolutely sure this isn't the first fic about hair-cutting, even with these two boys, with that title, but when it fits, it fits. 
> 
> next: the "happy ending" of "angst with a happy ending."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been a long, lonely time.

Steven Grant Rogers is gone. Or, more accurately, with a snap of a finger and a rearranging of the universe, Steven Grant Rogers no longer exists.

Until, all of a sudden, he _does._

_Being_ is disorienting at first, his atoms reconstituting themselves as if matter could be made from nothing, as if he is Adam, made from the dust of the ground and the buzzing particles of the universe. It’s nothing like coming out of deep freeze. It’s nothing like coming out of a seventy-year bad dream.

Completely nude, standing in the middle of downtown Manhattan, in the charred remains of what looks to be an Avengers-grade battle, Steve Rogers comes back to the world, unarmed, unmoored, but _whole_.  

The city is dead-silent around him, and for a moment, Steve thinks that he’s entered some sort of eerie parallel dimension. For a moment, he thinks he’s in purgatory. That is, until he sees movement, very deliberately making its way into his line of vision: someone is approaching him, someone with _his_ shield. At first, Steve throws himself into a defensive stance, knowing that, though he may be unarmed, he is _not_ defenseless. Nude as the day he was born, Steve Rogers is ready to throw down, until he realizes: he would recognize the set of those shoulders, that stalk—with its center of gravity set in the groin, the thick swell of those thighs, anywhere.

And almost as quickly as he’d sprung to action, almost as quickly as he’d been reborn, Steve Rogers, thorny as he’s always been, _melts._

“Bucky?” he asks, quietly, carefully, to the Captain America approaching him. Like he’d done, all those years ago, in a city not _too_ different from New York.  

Hands trembling, Captain America shoulders his shield. Steve can hardly feel himself breathing as red-brown leather gloves move to undo the chin strap, making way for that familiar, telltale chin dimple and sharp jawline. Captain America ducks his head, removing his helmet, and as he does, Steve fully forgets that the world must be watching. As he watches familiar features peek out from under the cowl, Steve is once again brought back to a battle on a causeway, and a very different kind of mask coming off. Just like then, the world and all its spectators narrow down into a single, key moment: the reveal, the revelation of who is behind the mask.  

As if Steve Rogers doesn’t already _know._ As if he wouldn’t recognize Bucky Barnes when he saw him. As if Bucky Barnes’ image doesn’t occupy the very depths of his soul.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky says, and _wow._ If he looked good from afar, it’s _nothing_ compared to seeing him up-close and unmasked. Before Steve can say anything, Bucky _literally_ sweeps him up into a tight, breathtaking hug, lifting Steve a full foot off the ground as he does. _Wow._

“Hey, Buck,” Steve manages to breathe. _God,_ Bucky is strong. He’d almost forgotten about that. Steve wraps his own arms around Bucky’s neck, drinking in the incredible blueness of his eyes, the familiar freckles on his temple, the bounce of his pretty brown curls. “Miss me?”

“Like my own goddamn heart, I’ve missed you,” Bucky says, big, shiny tears beginning to track their way down those sharp, familiar cheekbones. Steve’s brought back, all of a sudden, to the first time he saw Bucky cry, when they were all but eight years old, and Steve discovered, that day, on the schoolyard, that Bucky was the softest-hearted boy he’d ever met.  

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve murmurs, against Bucky’s neck. He can feel Bucky’s heartbeat thrumming so, so fast under his skin. “How long’ve I been gone?”

“Almost five years to the day,” Bucky manages, his voice wavering. _Five years_ hits Steve like a freight train, like a bullet, and he looks at Bucky with guilt, letting out a broken, heart-aching _gasp._  

“I—I’m so sorry, Buck,” Steve starts, “I—I thought—”

“No, no, it’s—it’s okay,” Bucky says, cutting Steve off, and smiling that infectious smile the whole goddamn time. He’s crying still, but Steve knows Bucky. They’re happy tears, even if he’s gonna have a hard time stopping them. “You’re back. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re together again. That’s all that matters.”

They stand there for who knows how long, drinking in each other’s presence. Bucky looks incredible in that unfamiliar red-and-white-and-blue-and-black uniform, his chest far broader than Steve remembered, his waist far tinier than Steve could have imagined. More exciting, though, is his _hair._ Last time that Steve saw Bucky, he had long, silky brown hair that tumbled down to his shoulders. Now, though, Bucky keeps his hair short, buzzed down to fuzz nearer to the temples, except for the long, bouncy curls at the top of his head, curls that Steve hasn’t seen since before the war. Steve wants nothing more than to run his fingers through those curls.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” Bucky says.

“I can’t believe it’s really _you!_ ” Steve says, looking Bucky up and down. “I mean, look at you!”

Bucky grins, ducking his head a little, bashful as ever and somehow, more beautiful than Steve could have ever remembered. “Jeez, Rogers—”

“I’m already naked as a goddamn babe in the middle of Manhattan. Don’t think I’ve got enough shame in me to _stop_ gushing over you.”

“Let’s—” Bucky starts, still grinning, still very, clearly embarrassed. He hands Steve the shield, less as a gesture of return, and more simply to give Steve some sort of decency in the face of his impossible rebirth. “Let’s just get you home.”

“Well, alright. _Captain’s orders,_ ” Steve teases, and though he trails close behind Bucky—following him, just as he’d followed him to war, almost a century ago—Steve knows for a _fact_ that Bucky is smiling.  

**\---**

Once they get Steve some clothes, after they go through the regular litany of medical tests that come with a miraculous return to the world of the living, Bucky and Steve jump on Bucky’s motorcycle, zipping through bustling New York City streets like the world is ending behind them. But for once, it’s not. For once, the world and all its inhabitants—even the inhabitants of the loud, chaotic, impossible city that they both forever find themselves returning to—seem to be at peace.

When they pull up to a familiar building, Steve feels the full weight of his homecoming press on his heart. Seeing that old, prewar building—the very same building they came up in, the very same building they came back to, the very same building that made _home_ —starts to make the fact that he’s been gone for _five goddamn years_ feel real.

“Well. Here we are,” Bucky says, pulling off his helmet, shaking loose those cute little curls. Steve is glad for the relative safety of his own helmet, because he _really_ doesn’t want to see Bucky start crying because _he’s_ tearing up. “Welcome home.”

And from the smile that Bucky sends him, all soft and still a little bit teary and so, so full of _love,_ Steve knows that his return is a much-needed homecoming, not just for himself, but for the both of them.  

**\---**

They make their way upstairs to that familiar apartment, an apartment that, like them, has survived more than its fair share of world-ending wars. The second they’re through the door, Bucky peels off the top half of the suit, of _his_ Captain America suit, revealing a thin black t-shirt underneath. He’s saying _something,_ talking about how he hadn’t had much time to redecorate the place, or something, but Steve isn’t able to put it together, not when he can watch the shifting of Bucky’s back muscles under that thin black t-shirt, the broad planes of his shoulders looking ever-broader compared to his waist, the sway of his round, muscular ass in those black tac pants.

_God._ Steve might not have even _known_ that he was gone until he returned, but did he _miss this._

“—Steve?” Bucky asks, looking over his shoulder, those curls swaying as he turns. His expression screams concern, barely-suppressed panic, but it quickly subsides, once Bucky seemingly realizes that Steve is fine, he’s better than fine, he’s _lost_ on Bucky, just like he had been before the war, just like he had been when Bucky returned from basic, dressed up in a whole different kind of suit.

“Sorry, I just—” Steve starts, closing that short distance between them. Bucky turns to fully look at Steve, and _oh,_ is that chest impressive. It’s almost hard to focus on Bucky’s face. Almost. Those familiar cheekbones, those shining blue eyes, those curls, _and_ the chest? It’s almost too much. Steve shakes his head, letting out a little laugh, blushing pink and embarrassed at his own lovesickness. “You’re—you’re _gorgeous,_ Buck.”

Bucky blinks at that, as if it’s not obvious, as if it’s not the same universal truth that is _I know you_ and _End of the line._ After a moment, a beat, a blink, Bucky smiles that heartwrenching smile of his, the one that makes Steve want to marry him all over again. Or kiss him. Or both. He’ll settle for kissing Bucky, for the time being, though. Leaning in close, Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s, kissing him delicately, tenderly, as if it’s their first time doing this all over again. Hell, it practically is. It sure _feels_ like it, in only the best kind of ways. Bucky’s lips are softer than Steve remembered, and he tastes like Werther’s Originals, burnt coffee, and _home._ Steve could get lost in Bucky’s mouth, and as he pulls away to breathe, he can’t take his eyes off Bucky’s lips, pink and plush and just as beautiful as the rest of Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky breathes, “Hang on.”

At that, it’s Steve’s turn to blink, confused and concerned. “What’s wrong?”  

“Nothing, it’s just,” Bucky says, his blue, blue eyes practically staring down Steve’s soul. Steve always had trouble when he read reports of his own gaze getting described as _piercing,_ but for Bucky, there’s no question to it. As Bucky ducks his head, tugging his dog tags off, Steve almost gives into the temptation to run his fingers through those springy caramel curls, but stops as he sees Bucky’s dog tags—and a familiar golden band hanging next to them.  

“Why—why are you—?” Steve asks, barely breathing.  

“I thought—” Bucky starts, undoing the chain, slipping the ring— _Steve’s ring_ —off and into his outstretched palm. “I thought I should uh. Well. Since you’re back, and all. I should probably give this back to you.”

The ring just barely glints in the low light of the apartment—of _their_ apartment—but in Bucky’s hand, it practically glows. As Steve takes it, he can feel his hands shaking, as if it could all dissolve under his fingers at any minute. His whole world _had,_ before. But that’s neither here nor there, now.

“You—you’ve kept this with you,” Steve breathes out, but only barely. As he slips his wedding band back on, Steve _really_ feels the weight of the five years he’s been gone, settling in his chest, wrenching at his heart. He imagines the pain of Bucky getting up to an empty bed every morning, for almost two-thousand mornings. Steve Rogers doesn’t consider himself a crier, not compared to Bucky, but this has him sniffling _._ “This whole time.”

Bucky shrugs, looking, more than before, like he’s about to burst into a full-body bawl at any minute. “I, uh. I guess I just wanted you near me.”

“Buck,” Steve starts, and when Bucky takes Steve’s left hand in his own, Steve can see that little band of gold, that little marital promise, fully-built into the plates of Bucky’s left ring finger.

“Missed you,” is what Bucky says, kissing Steve’s knuckles, lips gently grazing over Steve’s ring finger. It’s too much, all far too much, in a day that has been too much, on its own. Words are failing Steve, in a way that they only ever fail him when it comes to Bucky, to his best guy, to his _only guy._  

“ _Fuck,_ ” is all Steve can say, and he pulls Bucky in close, gentle, calm, and soon, they’re kissing again, all five years of Steve’s non-existence simultaneously motivating every move that Steve makes, and melting away at that moment. He grabs Bucky like he’s afraid to lose him, like he’s afraid that this, too, is tenuous; that this, too, could be gone at any time.

And, truth be told, it could. But in that moment, in the low light of their apartment, in a city that has sprung back to life just as quickly as Steve has, the future and all its chaos and all its uncertainties, all its potential sorrows, have no power over the two of them. No, in that moment, Steve and Bucky are _anchors._

Eventually, Steve’s hands find themselves wandering, finding their way underneath the hem of Bucky’s tight, tight black t-shirt and, soon, cupping the swell of Bucky’s broad, muscular chest. Steve gropes at Bucky’s pec, and when he kneads at one of Bucky’s nipples, that earns him a fantastic little groan and Bucky’s teeth biting Steve’s bottom lip. Bucky pulls back, pupils blown and expression hungry. All Steve can do is nod, peeling his shirt off and throwing it on the ground like a gauntlet before Bucky practically _pounces_ on him.

Frantically moving in tandem and knocking over furniture in the process, it doesn’t take long before they’re on the couch. Somehow, Steve’s managed to get his pants off, and Bucky’s shirt—that skintight, thin little thing that left absolutely _nothing_ to the imagination—has been thrown across the room. With Bucky seated upright, Steve straddles his lap, grinding the round, perky curve of his ass against Bucky’s still-clothed cock, earning a half-choked off little moan that makes Steve’s own cock twitch.  

“There’s—in the drawer, in the back,” Bucky starts, his voice dropping low, and Steve scrambles for it like it’ll save his goddamn life. Lo and behold, in the back of the side table drawer, behind old copies of Dissent Magazine _,_ there is a small bottle of lube, about three-fourths of the way full.

“Been getting busy while I’ve been gone?” Steve teases, tossing the bottle to Bucky.

“Nah,” Bucky answers, easily. Earnestly. He pops the lid and squeezes a generous amount of lube into his right hand, warming it up like the _goddamn gentleman_ he is. “It’s, uh. It’s good for flying solo.”

“Well,” Steve says with a little wink, as he pulls off his boxer briefs, letting his hardening dick spring free. “Don’t gotta worry ‘bout that anymore.”

From the way that his thick chest rises and falls, Steve can tell that Bucky has been waiting for this moment—or a moment like it—for the better part of five years. As Steve once again closes that distance between himself and Bucky, he moves purposefully, never breaking eye contact with Bucky as he straddles his lap, not breaking eye contact, even, as he pops the fly of Bucky’s tac pants and frees Bucky’s big, already-hard cock.

“Missed this,” Steve says, his own voice barely above a whisper. “Missed feeling you inside of me.”

“Wanna ride me, baby?” Bucky asks, as if they both don’t already know that’s what’s going to happen. As if they both don’t already know just how much they both want it. Steve hums, his tone serene.

“Only if you’ll lemme look at you while I do,” Steve responds, and Bucky nods, moving to finger Steve’s hole. As he helps guide Bucky’s right hand to prep him, Steve ruts his cock against Bucky’s, gently, ever-gently, so light it barely counts as touch at all. It earns a shuddering little breath from Bucky, one that Steve all but echoes when Bucky presses one long, thick finger into him.  

“Baby,” Bucky murmurs, looking Steve up and down in adoration, as if he and the whole goddamn world hadn’t seen him nude as the day he was born, just a few hours prior. “Look at you, baby. So goddamn pretty.”  

The words coming out of Bucky’s mouth are sweet, but he fingers Steve mercilessly, crooking a second finger into Steve and teasing him, plying him, playing with him, just _barely_ touching that spot that sends sparks off in Steve’s core. It’s too much and not enough all at once, when Steve’s dick, already achingly-hard, starts to leak precum against his stomach, forcing Steve to plant his hands on Bucky’s broad shoulders to keep himself steady. As Bucky continues to finger him, edging and practically ghostlike, Steve rocks back against Bucky’s touch, almost content to fuck himself against Bucky’s fingers. Almost.

“Need you, Buck,” is what Steve manages, as Bucky pulls his fingers out and away from Steve’s hole. Bucky doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t even so much as blink, as he begins lubing that big, thick cock of his, those long fingers pulling up slow, from shaft to tip. Steve can’t help but stare, as Bucky does so, his mouth going fully dry and words completely failing him underneath the dual weight of Bucky’s intense gaze and seeing Bucky’s fingers on his massive, beautiful cock. “ _Please, Buck._ ”

“Well. Since you’ve asked so nicely,” Bucky murmurs, trailing his hands slowly, ever-slowly, to Steve’s waist. His touch is gentle, barely-there, just as it has been, as he guides Steve, angling Steve just above his slicked-up cock. “Go on, baby.”  

And Steve, good soldier he is, does as he’s told, sinking onto Bucky’s dick, slow and steady, letting out a low, shallow noise as he does so. It nearly brings Steve to goddamn tears, that familiar feeling of Bucky filling him up.

“ _Fuck_ ,” is all Steve can say as he bottoms out, pawing at Bucky’s broad shoulders like he’s about to drown.  

“ _Jesus,_ Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, tipping his head back, eyes half-lidded and grip on Steve’s hips tightening, if only slightly. Steve takes that as his cue, digging his knees into the plush material of the couch and _moving._

Bucky is beautiful underneath him, all languid and unbound, thick muscle on full display, just for Steve. Soft, caramel-colored curls fall across his forehead like a halo, like a crown, framing those sharp, familiar angles of his face in ways that make Steve _weak._ Combined with the feeling of Bucky’s cock in his ass, combined with the _fucking ecstasy_ he feels as he fucks himself on Bucky’s dick, seeing Bucky like that—gorgeous and so confident in his own skin—leaves Steve trembling, _actually trembling,_ as he grabs a handful of Bucky’s muscular chest and _squeezes,_ groping like it’s the only thing he’s got to hang on to.

That earns a low moan from Bucky, a gasp, a _yes, baby_ without those words. Steve’s rhythm speeds up, getting more frantic, riding Bucky’s cock like it’s what he was reborn for, what the serum prepared him for, what he was built for. He manages to hit that spot, that fantastic fucking spot that leaves him breathless, and he moans, gripping Bucky so, so tightly.  

“Fuck, you’re _gorgeous,_ ” Bucky breathes, his big cock filling up Steve so, so good, like that, too, is what it was made for, what _Bucky_ was made and remade for. _No, you,_ Steve thinks, finally letting his fingers trail up to Bucky’s soft, beautiful curls, finally, finally getting a chance to thread his fingers through Bucky’s hair and _pull._

And _that,_ that little tug, seemingly switches something on in Bucky’s brain. Bucky’s grip on Steve’s hips tightens, dangerously, and Steve flushes at the idea of those fingerprint- bruises on his hips. With Bucky gripping him like that, practically moving Steve on his dick, Steve feels himself being undone, feels his body tightening, he can feel so, so close to release.

“Think I’m close,” he pants, letting Bucky move him, letting Bucky fuck him while hardly moving at all. Bucky leans in, close, planting a kiss against Steve’s collarbone, pressing those wonderful, wonderful curls against Steve’s skin, as Steve grips his hair, just _rough enough._ As if in response, Bucky’s right hand wanders, making its way from Steve’s bruised hipbones to Steve’s aching cock, and he starts stroking, quick and desperate and sending sparks off in Steve’s body, like fireworks.  

“Come for me, baby, come on, Stevie,” Bucky growls against Steve’s collarbone. It sends shivers up Steve’s spine, vibrations through Steve’s chest, and it’s all too much, all of a sudden, the feeling of Bucky’s cock buried balls-deep in his ass, Bucky’s hand jerking him off, and Bucky’s voice, low, shaking him to his core. He feels euphoric. He feels electric. He feels _whole,_ completely settled in his body, completely _real and there,_ under Bucky’s touch, with Bucky inside of him. And it’s _too much._  

“ _Yes—yes, Captain_ ,” Steve moans, or at least, he thinks he manages, because in that moment, all of that tension—those five years of nothingness and seventy years of _waiting—_ snaps, and Steve comes, messy and moaning and feeling absolutely fucking _alive,_ more alive than he’s ever felt before.

Bucky comes barely a second after Steve, that half-whispered _Captain_ seemingly having pushed him fully over the edge. As he shoots off in Steve, filling him up so, so good, Steve practically cries, that feeling of taking Bucky’s load sending aftershocks of pleasure roiling through Steve’s whole body. He doesn’t want to pull off, doesn’t want to remove himself from Bucky’s softening cock, but somehow, Steve manages, shifting to straddle Bucky’s lap so that he can just fucking _look_ at his guy.

Those pretty brown curls are drenched in sweat, plastered against Bucky’s forehead, the longer ones curling around his temples. Steve parts them, gently, and Bucky looks up at Steve as he does so, big, blue eyes unblinking, shimmering with the threat of tears, once more.  

“Quit making eyes at me, you big sap,” Steve says, playfully thumping his forehead against Bucky’s.

“Sorry, it’s just—” Bucky starts, and there he goes again, in that sad, heart-wrenching voice of his again, sounding like he’s about two seconds away from crying. It makes Steve ache for him. It makes Steve soft for him, too. “I missed you so, so much, baby.”

“I missed you too, Buck,” Steve says, taking Bucky’s hand in his own. It’s sticky with dried lube and Steve’s cum, but under the circumstances, it’s fine. It’s _perfect._ “I didn’t even know how much I’d missed you ‘till I saw you standing there, looking like my goddamn hero. Didn’t know much of anything, really, given that I kinda stopped existing, but as soon as I came back, all I knew was I missed you. Deep in my soul of souls, I knew I’d missed you.”

Bucky stares at Steve, his big, blue eyes wet with tears and his gaze intense. Steve almost withers under it, as Bucky cups Steve’s face with his left hand, touch just distant enough to let Steve lean into it.  

“Promise me you won’t pull a dumbass stunt like that ever again, okay?” Bucky asks, his voice barely above a whisper, like confession, like devotion, like a prayer. “Promise me—whatever you do—you’ll do your best to keep us together, _‘till the very end of the line,_ okay?”

Steve doesn’t hesitate, not for a moment, when he answers.

“Of course, Buck,” Steve says, “Promise.”  

And this time—five years and the universe later—he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap on this little speculative hair-fic. it's been in the works for quite a few months, like i've said, so i was hoping to get this chapter before all the endgame fallout hit twitter, but, exhaustion and life got a hold of me. i haven't actually seen endgame in theaters yet, but hey. i know enough to get the gist. 
> 
> this chapter was, unlike the previous one, beta read, and by [the incredible em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier), at that. i don't know what i would do without her wonderful beta notes and friendship. 
> 
> i do have a couple notes for this chapter, unlike the previous: 
> 
> \- as i haven't formally seen endgame yet, i didn't realize that five years was a time span that is actually canon. so. that's just serendipity. serend-tit-ity, given how much i objectify bucky barnes in this, ha.   
> \- i love to thinking through how new york city would spring back to life after all the dusted came back to life. i don't deal with that here, but i love to think that after the snap, communities (especially those in precarity) came together to look after one another, especially as caretakers and loved ones vanished. i know that's hopeful, and i know that it doesn't take the edge off how painful this movie turned out to be, but it's something. i think that communities within, outside of, and unrelated to nyc would have proved resilient, and i think that the return of all the dusted would have led to a massive celebration of life. i want to think that, anyway.   
> \- bucky tastes like werther's originals because steve carries around caramels in his little belt-pouches, and he does, too. this is a headcanon that i apply to all of my fics, but it is most-relevant in this one and [hot librarian au](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230270/chapters/20933219). there is NO WAY there aren't at least SOME snacks in those pouches. trust.   
> \- bucky barnes reads [dissent magazine](https://www.dissentmagazine.org/) because much like steve rogers, he might be wearing the flag, but he ain't no fascist. and you can take that one to the bank, my friends. (i initially had him reading guns & ammo until i realized that left a sour taste in my mouth). also in bucky barnes' physical print subscriptions: [bluestockings magazine](https://www.pw.org/literary_magazines/bluestockings_magazine). because in this universe, where the dead come back to life, bluestockings can still have a print edition. 
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading. and thanks for being in this community, everyone. post-endgame is hard, but the stevebucky community, i hope, is as resilient as i have experienced it to be. i can't wait to see everything else that we can do. love and strength and a fuck-off of canon to all of you <3


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